Three Dog Night are a curious case: There was a time, namely the late sixties and early to mid-seventies, when this rather unhip long-hair “vocal group” had singles galore scrabbling to the top of the pop charts like spider monkeys, and they were one of the country’s top touring acts to boot. Now? All anybody seems to remember about them is the famous exploding penis story.
What? You haven’t heard the famous exploding penis story? Well have a seat, and let’s get it over with so we can get down to a semi-serious discussion of what made this unhip (did I say that already?) group of singing minstrels so three doggone popular. Seems vocalist Chuck Negron, who with Cory Wells and Danny Hutton made up the band’s singing triumvirate, had a little fucking problem. As in he couldn’t stop fucking. As in he fucked so much his, er, male member grew inflamed and painful and inexplicably, more fucking made it even worse!
So Chuck finally breaks down (his dick hurts!) and goes to the dick doctor, who tells him to give said member the equivalent of a nice long rest in a Swiss mountain sanitarium, where it could lie in the sun with a blanket pulled up to its neck. But Chuck was a firm believer in the “no pain, no gain” philosophy of penis fitness, and the inflammation was making his penis larger, right? And that had to be a good thing, right? So Chuck keeps on fucking through the pain until, in his own words, his organ split down the middle “like a hot dog,” accompanied by an unpleasant ripping sound. Although the sound couldn’t have been as unpleasant as the stitching-up process.
So. That out of the way, back to our story. But what is our story? Oh yeah, Three Dog Night, who were this family-friendly crew of long-hairs who made their bread (er, hot dog rolls) the old-fashioned way—by popularizing other peoples’ songs. It was quaint, in one respect, but how different were they from Joe Cocker, really? Well, Joe Cocker covered cool songs, for one, and went batshit crazy while doing it (he might even puke on you, really giving you your money’s worth!).
“The Dog” covered nice, really rather middle-of-the-road songs (although they did dig up some oddballs), and they set them politely in nice, really rather middle-of-the-road musical arrangements. Their “An Old-Fashioned Love Song” says it all. Why, they could have gone the Vegas route if they’d cut their hair, that’s how innately conservative their sound was, but (unlike the super-squares in Blood, Sweat & Tears) they didn’t have to because they were packing concert venues from Sheboygan to Shitknuckles. Which just goes to show you that this whole notion of America’s young people of the time being an unruly mob of frothing drug fiends couldn’t be further from the truth. Why, I bet you a good quarter of their concert attendees were Nixon voters!
Anyway, during their prime the band that The Village Voice’s Robert Christgau dubbed “the Kings of Oversing” and called “slick as Wesson Oil” (while still giving them some surprisingly good reviews!) had an impressive run of smash radio hits (eleven in the Top Ten! Another ten in the Top Forty!). None written by A-List artists. And this—along with their trio of singers, who quite democratically handled lead on their big hit singles—was their strength. They had an ear for quality songs by the likes of Hoyt Axton, Randy Newman, Harry Nilsson, John Hiatt, Mr. Showbiz himself Paul “I’m not a goddamn midget!” Williams, Allen Toussaint, Leo Sayer and a host of other folks I’ve never heard of. They could dress up an obscurity real nice like, and nobody ever was ever going to compare their version unfavorably to, say, The Beatles original.
1982’s The Best of 3 Dog Night is one of the best of the numerous compilations out there, and it’s a compilation you’ll want to go with because who besides an Eagle Scout, a bored housewife, or a member of Tricky Dick’s Committee to Re-Elect the President (CREEP) would want to own the nine or so albums they first appeared on? The dubious advantage of owning the studio albums is that most include at least one band original, all of which (I recommend listening to “Rock and Roll Widow” or the “funky instrumental” “Fire Eater”) provide resounding proof that the band was better off sticking to covers. So The Best of 3 Dog Night is the way you should go—you get twenty songs, none of them commercial losers slipped on under the cover of night to increase the body count. Which should be enough to satisfy even the greediest “Doghead.”
Even a cynic such as myself is forced to admit that some of these songs are great. Most all of them sound quaintly dated, but the best have held up over the years, even if they do carry the faint whiff of antiquity and are de facto nostalgia items. The band may have described the bubbly “Joy to the World” as a silly kid’s song, but it ruled the world when I was in eighth grade for a reason—the off-hand lyrics (evidently its creator, Hoyt Axton, made them up on the spot) are infectious, and Negron’s vocals have a rough and tumble feel that does a good job of dissipating the kid’s show vibe. And the band does a more-than-respectable job of dressing up Randy Newman’s “Mama Told Me Not to Come,” a hilarious tale of a mama’s boy who finds himself at a wild party where (to quote somebody) something’s happening and he don’t know what it is. Wells does a great job on lead vocals, Negron and Hutton provide lively back-up, and while they don’t quite nail the original’s air of hilarious discombobulation, you weren’t going to hear Newman’s superior version on your car radio.
Similarly, Three Dog Night’s version of Axton’s “Never Been to Spain” holds up. Cory Wells’ vocal performance is subtle but powerful, and the band shows real country rock chops; special kudos go out to organist Jimmy Greenspoon and guitarist Mike Allsup. And when Wells gets an assist on the vocals from the others towards the end, things get downright exciting. The band’s cover of Paul “I swear I’m not a goddamn midget!” Williams’ “The Family of Man” stills holds water as well; the singers swap verses like the guys in The Band, the song has real momentum, and the band sounds like an honest to god rock band, and not like a group of show biz hacks whose only job was to stand behind the singers playing competently enough not to raise any alarms. The same is true for the band’s cover of John Hiatt’s “Sure as I’m Sitting Here,” their final Top 20 hit. Wells has a gruff Newman-like drawl to his voice, and he keeps things simple while the band, Lord help us all, actually cooks.
Wells delivers a bravura performance on Nawlins’ own Allen Toussaint’s “Play Something Sweet (Brickyard Blues),” a bona fide funky number that in the hands of a lesser bunch might have had Bourbon Street hanging its head in shame. And the other vocalists answer the call when needed. Three Dog Night gives the Russ Ballard (of Argent fame) number “Liar” a subterranean, percolating feel—Hutton shines, the band boogies, and it’s a winner even if I’ve never much cared for the way the band shouts out that “Liar!” the way you might shout “Fire!” in a crowded theater. It’s a First Amendment violation if you ask me.
After that, cobwebs. The remaining songs—and they include most of the band’s biggest hits—sound well past their sell-by date, shards of sound uncovered during an archeological dig of some lost age. They tend to be cloying and over-produced–they’re show tunes for hippies, and a grim and foreboding inner voice tells me they’re still regular features of high school choir concerts across our great land. Avoid high school choir concerts.
A quick rundown of the rogue’s gallery. The gag-inducing “Black and White” was the “Ebony and Ivory” of its benighted age. “Shambala” is Bob Seger’s “Katmandu” for the easy-listening set. The antique shop curio “Pieces of April”—by Kenny Loggins evil second cousin Dave—features a positively (negatively?) precious vocal performance by Negron and will give you a bad case of hay fever. Negron also over-prettifies Harry “Lost Weekend” Nilsson’s “One,” which is indeed the loneliest number, er song. I’ll bet you this one stands by its lonesome at parties, waiting in vain for someone to speak to it, although for a moment I doubted myself—I couldn’t escape the horrifying suspicion that this monstrosity might be a karaoke staple. So I set my friend Gillian Cornelius, a real karaoke bar pro in LA, to find out. And her research set my mind to rest—her team of informants reassured her (and more importantly, me) that “One” is a karaoke nonentity. Thank God for small favors.
“The Show Must Go On” (thanks for nothing, Leo Sayer) is like going to the circus—you’ll recognize the music—and so gratuitously tacky that not even Negron’ frenetic and indeed career-topping vocal performance can’t save it, but is lost in the parade of dancing elephants. What a waste. “Eli’s Coming” is overwrought blackface jive, and will make you want to pick cotton, guaranteed! “Celebrate” is “Celebrate” and the least objectionable of the losers—I like the way the boys each take a verse, and how it all builds to a hokey crescendo of hand-clapping revival tent religious fervor complete with Dixieland horns. Do you really want to miss out on that? It’s almost as groovy as the Doobie Brothers! Finally we have the completely objectionable cover of “Definitely not a midget” Williams’ “An Old-Fashioned Love Song,” which sounded old-fashioned then and may as well be a Gregorian chant now. Negron’s vocals are so mannered and saccharine you could use them to flavor one thousand old fashioneds, all of which you’ll need if you intend to make it through the song.
Three Dog Night were the clotted cream in the bong of the early seventies, the band your younger sister liked to sing along with while she went about burning the house down with her Easy-Bake Oven. Your mom probably dug them too. They were an act, not a band—show biz in its hippified state, the Four Freshmen in freak wigs and love beads. More importantly, they were the perfect palliative and salve to a generation recovering from the collective psychosis induced by the Vietnam War, political unrest, bad drugs, Altamont, the Manson Family, and Eric Burdon solo albums. Especially the Eric Burdon solo albums.
But then again so were the Carpenters, and who doesn’t love the Carpenters? The difference is that the music of the Carpenters is timeless. Their songs don’t sound like they just came out of a time capsule. The better part of Three Dog Night’s work hasn’t aged as well as the vintages in Jeremiah the Bullfrog’s well-stocked wine cellar. Indeed, songs like “An Old-Fashioned Love Song” and “One” are pure vinegar. In the end what we’re left with are a few good songs that still hold up and an exploding penis. Three Dog Night are a cautionary tale in more ways than one.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
C-
